


Break that way

by sublightsleeper



Series: Bleed the same [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Flashbacks, M/M, Pining, This is what happens when you read Crazy Rich Asians in two days, Unhappy marriage, i have no idea how to tag things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 00:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15740130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublightsleeper/pseuds/sublightsleeper
Summary: Magnus’ heart had never stopped aching for Alec. It had just been easier to ignore it while he was in Jakarta. But here, surrounded by Alec’s city, it was like ripping the bandaid off all over again and starting with a fresh, bleeding wound.





	Break that way

There’s something wrong. 

It’s obvious from the moment Alec opens the front door, keyring jangling against the metal of the deadbolt. There’s a stillness to the apartment, a quiet that doesn’t sit right. “Magnus?” Alec calls out, voice hushed in response to just how silent the rest of the place is. 

It’s only when he’s pulled the key from the lock and shut the door behind him with a hand still on the knob that the all wrong starts making sense. 

There’s nothing on the coffee table. 

Not the cups left over from their hurried breakfast this morning, a chipped set of old china that Magnus had found in an antique shop in Tribeca and instantly fallen in love with. But it was more than that. Magnus’ half finished book wasn’t tented open on the sleek glass coffee table either. 

“Magnus? You home?” There was a stone growing in the pit of his stomach that Alec was trying desperately not to think about. He was being silly, that was all. Too much time with his head down, focusing on work. It was making him antsy. 

In the kitchen, the grocery list had been torn off of the pad. Alec feels relief surge through his chest. See? He was just being silly. Magnus had straightened up, and decided to go shopping. He’d probably taken his book so that he had something to do on the subway.

Some of that worry eased from his bones, Alec stoops to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. He shrugs off his jacket, hanging it along the back of one of the kitchen chairs. The table had been a gift from Mrs. Hernandez across the hall, a nosy old lady who had insisted when she peeked into their apartment one night while they were having friends over, and had seen them sitting on the floor to play cards. It was a gold painted metal monstrosity, something right out of the early 90s. Which of course meant that Magnus loved it. 

Their apartment was was an exercise in contradiction. Lush fabrics on the windows, on the pillows, on the bed. And right next to them were things that were pushing the boundaries of Bohemian, thrift store chic. Alec didn’t really care what the furniture looked like as long as it was functional, and Magnus was incapable of getting rid of anything that was a gift. 

It was cluttered, and a little wild, but it was home. 

Alec polishes off the bottle of water, leaving it sitting on the kitchen counter so that he can fill it back up. He toes his boots off in the hallway and swings open the bedroom door. The wrongness hits him so hard that it steals the breath from his lungs in a punch. 

The closet door is open, Alec’s meager wardrobe pushed all the way to the left. The rest of the hangers are empty, cluttered where they’re hanging from the metal bar. Magnus’ tablet is gone from his bedside table, along with the little mother of pearl dish he kept his rings in, the one Alec bought him for his birthday last year that Magnus had gotten teary eyed over. 

Alec turns a slow circle in the room, dread ramping up into panic in his chest. It’s only when he’s completed his circuit, a steady no no no under his breath that Alec sees the grocery list folded the wrong way and left on Magnus’ pillow. 

Written on the back of a list that reminds Alec to buy the good coffee is a note in Magnus’ spidery, delicate script. Words that Alec won’t be able to wash from his mind for a very long time. 

_I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. Forgive me._

\------------------------------

“Magnus!”

Camille’s voice rang out, shrilly in the cavernous depths of her closet. Magnus closed his eyes, and only just resisted the urge to dig the heels of his hands in against them. Four years, and the sound of her voice still made him want to claw his eyes out. 

It was hard to remember those blurry six months after he’d moved back to Jakarta on his mother’s insistence, lest he lose everything. (And still he’d lost. Terribly. He still woke up reaching for Alec most days.) When Camille’s voice was soft and sweet, when she seemed so understanding as she hooked her arm in his. 

Magnus hadn’t even picked out the massive chocolate diamond on his wife’s finger. Not that he would have, chocolate diamonds were cliche. He hadn’t proposed either. Camille had rolled over against him after a frantic bout of sex and told him flatly ‘we’re getting married. Tell your parents’. 

At the time, he’d been stupid enough to believe her when she told him she was pregnant. That’s why they rushed the wedding along, paid the big bucks to bump other reservations that had been years in the making. All to avoid a scandal. 

But the day had come and gone, vows spoken beneath an arch covered in lilies (funeral flowers, he tried to tell her. But Camille never listened.) and no swelling of Camille’s flat stomach had ever occurred. When Magnus asked her about it on their honeymoon, during the few short hours he saw her while they were in Bora Bora, she’d just laughed. 

“What do you need, Camille?” He keeps his voice level. She had a habit of throwing things when she thought she was being disrespected. Magnus isn’t afraid of her, and he doesn’t really care about the decor, only about the money she spends replacing the Ming vases she likes to hurl in her fits of pique. Bitch fits, that’s what Magnus calls them to himself. 

“Have you seen my Chopard sunglasses?” Honestly, Magnus wishes he hadn't. They were a hideous gold with a huge emblem on the side. They were as tacky as a four hundred thousand dollar pair of sunglasses could be. 

“In the box, on the shelf.” Because she hadn’t actually worn them yet. Magnus assumed they would join the pile of purchases that got cast aside every season without being worn. But maybe he’d get lucky, just this once. 

The ping of the phone makes him reach over blindly for the bedside table, and he’s rewarded with his phone vibrating under his hand. Magnus swings his legs over the side of the bed, swiping the phone open. 

_I can’t stop thinking about your mouth on my cock._

Well. Magnus hasn’t gotten any of these types of texts since he got married. For one wild second, he thinks it might be from Alec. But Magnus had changed his number when he moved, and lost touch with almost all his friends. No one back in America had this number. 

Magnus thumbs the text message away, and is met with a picture of Camille making duck face in front of a palatial vacation home in Greece. This wasn’t right. His background was a rotating selection of fabrics and textures, never any pictures. 

This wasn’t his phone. 

Magnus puts Camille’s phone back down on the bedside table, numb. 

\----------------------

Traffic in Jakarta is insane. Always wall to wall, people on scooters weaving in and out of traffic with little regard for themselves, or anyone else. Magnus never drives himself anywhere, not wanting to deal with the headache of it. But he needs something to focus on, to keep his mind off of the frequent chiming of his phone. 

He’d connected Camille’s iCloud to his email address quietly while she dressed. She then strode out of the bedroom on brand new heels, in a strappy red dress and told him that she was going to meet some girls from the charity group for drinks. 

Camille was on almost every charity board in the city. And like most of the women on there, she didn’t care at all about the charities themselves. They were ladder climbing tools, a way to network yourself with other affluent women. 

He’d never once doubted ‘drinks with the girls’. And what a mistake that was. Magnus had sat in his garage and watched the messages fly. 

_Cami: On my way._

_Damien: Getting wet for me, baby?_

_Cami: Only for you, Daddy ;)_

It went on and on while Camille sat in traffic, being chauffeured by a driver that the Bane fortune paid for, to sleep with some pathetic asshole who needed to be called ‘daddy’ by a grown woman to keep it up. 

Swearing under his breath, Magnus finally clears the red light and is able to turn into the parking garage attached to the giant glass building, lit up by the gold of the setting sun. He’d bought the place not long after the wedding, more of an investment than anything. But when the fighting started, it paid to have an apartment that Camille didn’t know about that he could get to, to clear his head. 

The private elevator in the garage requires a small brass key on his keyring to get him all the way to the penthouse floor. Where the home he shared with Camille was all modern sleek lines and opulence, this apartment was shabby chic. 

It was leftovers from his old life. Magnus shrugs off his suit coat and hangs it by the door, fingertips tracing over the faded brocade pillows on the couch. He pours himself a martini, but Magnus doesn’t want to sit on the couch and mindlessly watch tv. He pads into the bedroom, throwing himself on the small (by Bane standards) bed in the single bedroom, his drink on the bedside table. 

The flow of the room was all off, the bed facing the closet. But Magnus didn’t care. It kept the light out of his eyes when he slept off hangovers here. So what if all he saw were hangers and…

And a cardboard shoebox sitting on the top shelf of the closet. 

Heart in his throat, Magnus slides off of the bed and leans up onto his toes in the closet, fingertips brushing against the box enough that it tips over to where he can grab it. Carrying it back to the bed, Magnus sits cross legged on the silk sheets, staring down at the closed box. 

It was just an old Nike box, the orange faded into something slightly darker than the rest of the cardboard. The sticker with the size had been pulled off, and the embled on the top was faded. Magnus traced the edges of the lid with the tip of his finger before he lifted it open. 

The scent of old cologne was long gone, but Magnus’ stomach still clenched with the memory of it. At the top of the pile of papers were a few postcards. Queens. Tribeca. East Village. There were postcards from all of the boroughs, all of them addressed to the apartment they’d shared in Brooklyn. Magnus turned over the one from Queens. 

_Magnus,_  
We’re on a date right now. You’re waiting in line for Pandemonium, and I’m supposed to be getting water bottles from the bodega. You look beautiful tonight.  
Alec 

It had been a shock, when the first one came in the mail. Magnus never knew when they would come. They were never because of anniversaries or special dates. Alec would just see a postcard somewhere and write a note on it. He’d even started keeping stamps in his wallet for just that reason. 

Beneath the postcards were the ring dish, and poetry scraps that Magnus never admitted to taking. Little pieces, single lines, things that Alec had never fleshed out properly. But they all reminded him dearly of Alexander. 

It’s a napkin from The Hunter’s Moon, a ring of yellow imprinted into it from a beer that sat on top, condensation rolling down its side. On the back, in Alec’s neat block script was _shut up, I’m getting to it._

\-------------------------

_Magnus comes to the wedding because Clary is both adorable and terrifying in equal measure, and she’d been absolutely adamant that her ‘one real friend from Julliard’ come to her wedding. So Magnus agreed, even if he did so under duress._

_Weddings weren’t his thing. But it didn’t take long to realize that this wasn’t the kind of pretentious affair he was used to back home. There was no string quartet, only Clary’s nerdy little friend with an acoustic guitar singing sweet ballads in the corner of the reception hall._

_There was no champagne, just punch bowls in various eye watering colors. And best of all, there were no judgmental Bane women hissing behind their hands about him wearing eyeliner and his shirt unbuttoned deeply._

_“Clary. Isabelle. Congratulations.” His gift was on the overflowing table, a crisp white envelope with tickets inside to several weeks worth of couples cooking classes. Magnus got a kiss on the cheek from each of the brides, though Clary’s new wife kept looking over his shoulder. Never one to miss out on a scene, Magnus looked behind him as well._

_There was a tall, pale slip of a man with a shock of unruly black hair sitting at one of the tables, alone. Staring. Their eyes meet for a moment, and when tall, dark and handsome realizes he’s been made, he jerks his gaze guiltily down to his drink, grip tight around his glass._

_“That’s my brother Alec.” Izzy’s voice was warm with affection, and just a little exasperation. “He’s…” That pause seemed to say it all, but Magnus waited patiently for Isabelle to find the right words. “...still new to all of this.”_

_“Say no more.” Magnus squeezed her shoulder gently before he stepped away from the happy couple. He walked across the room with purpose, trying to suppress his smile at the way Alec was sinking down into his chair, trying to hide despite his height._

_“Whatever she told you, it isn’t true.” Alec’s eyes were the most lovely hazel. At least, from what Magnus could see, since Alec would only glance at him for a moment or two before he scowled back down at the table._

_“So your name isn’t Alec, and you’re not Isabelle’s brother?” That gets him a slightly more surprised look. Magnus smiles. “That’s all she told me. I’d much rather get my information straight from the source.”_

_Magnus holds out a hand._

_“So how about you dance with me, and then you can tell me everything you think I need to know?”_

\--------------------

The vase comes hurtling at his head, a vicious projectile painted with beautiful, pale blue flowers. Magnus ducks out of the way just in time for the vase to connect with the wall, shattering into a hundred glittering pieces on the carpet. 

“How dare you!” Camille’s already shrill voice was ear splitting at a scream. Magnus held onto the manila folder in his hand, his grip white knuckled. He’d known better than to accuse Camille of anything until he had proof, and a few text messages weren’t going to be enough, no matter how damning they were. 

So he’d hired a private detective, and it had taken less than a week for the man to get pictures with his telephoto lens. Camille had gotten sloppy in her time, too used to being free to do what she wanted. Not only had Magnus opened the folder to find pictures of her kissing a few different men, there were even a couple of stomach churning photos of her bent over a Maserati, getting fucked by some Spanish pop singer. 

And of course, in true Camille fashion, she was taking Magnus’ soft spoken information with a screaming bitch fit. “You can’t divorce me! I’ll tell them you raped me! I’ll slit my wrists! I’ll throw myself down the stairs and tell them you’re trying to kill me!”

As much as Magnus had never truly loved Camille as much as he loved the idea of her filling the hole that Alexander left behind, he’d never hated her. He’d always wanted to believe that unhappiness was making her bitter and cruel. But as those hateful words left her lips, Magnus knew the truth of it. She was just an awful person. 

“You signed the pre-nup, Camille. You have no life insurance. And I’m sorry, but on this side of the world, people aren’t going to consider it rape, even if you could convince them that I was in the long line of men who have been touching you.” Camille screamed again, tipping over her vanity, sending thousand dollar bottles of cosmetics spilling onto the floor. 

It was awful. 

Magnus turned away, heading towards the elevator. There was nothing here that he needed. Everything of sentimental value was already at the apartment across town. This was no home, it was a place full of clothes and gifts he’d bought to try and play at being a dutiful husband. 

As the elevator doors slid open, he heard Camille shriek behind him.

“They’ll disown you! The only thing more disgraceful than divorce is that you’re a fairy!” 

On some level, Magnus knew she was right. His family was old money. They’d tolerated Alec by virtue of deciding amongst themselves that he was a phase. And when he married Camille, his family was able to put that “unpleasantness” behind them. But divorce...that was forever. It would show up in the papers. 

“I made the mistake of putting duty before happiness once before, Camille. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

\-------------------------

_The sky is beautiful, a coral smear at the edge of the horizon. The air is heavy with humidity, and the “green” smell that comes with being surrounded on all sides by local flora. Magnus’ parents house is stark against the backdrop of the rainforest, all Grecian pillars and inlaid marble._

_It’s...a lot. Magnus knows that his family is a lot, and he’s done what he could to try and prepare Alec for coming here. But what he hasn’t mentioned to Alec is that he’s never brought anyone home before. It’s a big deal for reasons beyond Alec’s gender. (And his nationality.)_

_“Deep breath, petal.” Magnus is pepping himself up as much as he’s trying to give Alec some courage. Alec looks absolutely stunning in a black suit with a matching black shirt, tie left on the bed so that Magnus could appreciate the wonderful view of the hollow of his throat._

_True to form, Alec rolls his shoulders back and takes a deep breath. He’s always soldiered on, no matter what life threw at him. There was an endless well of strength to Alec, a quiet sort of dignity that had drawn Magnus in from the start._

_And now here he was. Head over heels in love and holding hands with the most incredible man he’d ever met, fingers laced together as they walked up the steps into his parent’s manor, to face the firing squad._

_The maid at the door bows to both of them, and Magnus finds himself fighting a smile when Alec reaches out and shakes her hand. It isn’t about a lack of social etiquette with Alec, Magnus knows that. It’s a refusal to adhere to standards that aren’t up to his moral code. It’s terribly endearing._

_“Magnus!” His father’s booming voice, and sure enough the sound of his cane follows soon after, a steady rapping against the marble floors. Magnus is swept up into a hug with both arms, trying desperately to ignore the fact that his father is wearing an all white suit. He looked like he should be on some sort of tropical dating reality show. “And you must be Alexander.”_

_Magnus finds himself holding his breath as Alec smiles shyly, and offers a hand to shake. But the universe must be smiling down on him, because his father only shakes Alec’s hand and welcomes him to his home._

_But he should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. His father was a great businessman, but everyone who was anyone in Indonesia knew who he truly answered to._

_“Oh, you must be Magnus’ American friend.” Magnus closes his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself. His mother’s voice is ice cold as she descends the stairs, wearing a cobalt colored kebaya and her most unimpressed expression._

_Alec falters, but introduces himself softly, holding out a hand to shake. But Magnus’ mother walks right past him, not bothering to spare him a glance before she speaks to Magnus in Indonesian._

_‘You could have at least found a Chinese boy.’_

\----------------------------

“You can’t do this.”

His mother might be a terror of a woman, but she was nothing like Camille. Magnus’ mother taught him everything there was to know about diffusing a situation, and how to use charm and grace to get what you wanted. 

Which was why she wasn’t yelling, or starting a fuss. She was sitting with a tea cup in her lap, voice absolutely even. “You’ll be ruining your reputation. Our family could never survive the shame of a divorce.”

Magnus opened his mouth to say something, but his mother held up a delicate, manicured hand. “Infidelity is a part of marriage, Magnus. We endure, because it’s the right thing to do. Your father has had a dozen mistresses over the years. Even now, he has a woman in Hong Kong he doesn’t think I know about.”

At the bar, Asmodeus’ hand falters and he spills whiskey on his sleeve. He pulls the monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the stain, all without looking towards Magnus and his mother. 

Coward. It might be the cruelest thing Magnus has ever thought about his father, but he’s tired of living a lie. Of putting duty before love and happiness. “I’m not staying with someone who doesn’t love me.” 

His mother snorts a laugh, covering the sound of it by sipping her tea. “The only people who marry for love are those who don’t have anything better to achieve in their lives. You’re the only son of the Bane empire. Now stop with all this nonsense, go home and make yourself presentable.”

It’s too much. For once, Magnus wishes he were like Camille. That he could hurl his tea cup against the wall, just for the satisfaction of hearing it shatter. “I’m leaving tonight. The plane is chartered, and the divorce papers are already at a lawyer’s office.”

 _A_ lawyer, not the family lawyer. Not someone who could be talked out of filing by money. Magnus stands, and his mother stands as well, fast enough that tea splashes onto her hand. “Magnus, if you leave, then you will never come back. I’ll strip your stocks, wipe you from the board and empty your bank accounts.”

It was the same threat she held over his head four years ago. The company needs you, Magnus. And if you don’t come home, then I’ll be forced to take your stocks from you. He’d been so afraid of losing his father’s respect, his mother’s love, that he’d given up the only real home he’d ever had. The only true friends, true _love_ he’d ever had. All for this. 

For a shallow veneer and no depth. Not even to his mother’s heart. 

Magnus puts his tea cup down gently on the table between him. Then he takes off his watch, a birthday gift from his mother from last year. And then the mother of pearl cufflinks she’d given him as a wedding present. He couldn’t give back the thousands of dollars in stocks at the moment, so this would have to do. 

“Goodbye, mother. I hope this ends up being worth it for you in the end.”

\-------------------------

Magnus’ mother has his bank accountants emptied by the time the chartered plane lands in JFK. It’s jarring, checking the numbers and seeing red zeroes. But there’s one bank account his mother can’t get to, because it’s never received a payment from his family’s holdings. 

It’s the bank account he started when he graduated from Julliard, the one he collected all the money from his paintings sold. It was a drop in the bucket compared to what he had yesterday, but it was still enough to start a life for himself. 

It was a terrifying thought, starting over. Having as close to nothing as he’s ever been. Magnus takes a taxi into Brooklyn, and he bums around his favorite deli shop and flip flops on whether or not to make the call until the sun goes down. 

Ragnor Fell opens his front door on the second knock, and takes Magnus into his arms, squeezing him tightly and welcoming him home. And then he smacks him in the head with the book he’s reading, which is no small fiction novel. It’s a tome of Victorian literature, and Magnus might be a little concussed. 

He tells the story to Ragnor in fits and starts on his couch, sharing sushi between them. But eventually, he gets it all out. The threats, leaving Alec. Marrying Camille. The affair. His parents. Walking away from it all. Ragnor is quiet, waiting him out. He only speaks when Magnus falls silent at the end of his story. 

“You can stay here until you get on your feet. I’m sure Catarina will let you rent your old studio space from her again. And the next time you sell one of your ridiculously smutty paintings for an ungodly amount, you can pay me back.”

Ragnor, incredible friend that he is, pretends like he doesn’t see the way that Magnus is wiping treacherous moisture from his eyes.

\----------------------------

“We’re going out tonight.”

Magnus looks up in surprise from where he’s perfecting his lump of mold impression in Ragnor’s guest bedroom. Ragnor has never really been the partying type, and for the six months Magnus has been sleeping here, Ragnor has been the one friend who Magnus hasn’t had to duck invitations from. 

Being back in New York was...harder than expected. Magnus knew it was the right thing to do, he knew that being away from his parents and Camille while the divorce was finalized was the only way he’d make it through it. 

But so many of his memories here were twisted around Alec. He couldn’t walk through the city without some sight, or some smell, or some sound reminding him of a date they went on, or a place they’d been. 

Magnus’ heart had never stopped aching for Alec. It had just been easier to ignore it while he was in Jakarta. But here, surrounded by Alec’s city, it was like ripping the bandaid off all over again and starting with a fresh, bleeding wound.

“You heard me. And for God’s sake, take a shower. Bohemian may work for you, but starving artist is too butch for the likes of you.” Magnus can’t help it. He laughs. Ragnor always looked out for him, even if he did it in his own brusque way. 

“Alright, alright.” A shower and a shave, and Magnus feels more human than he has in months. Though he has to admit that all this misery had done wonders for his work, even if the two completed and sold pieces focused heavily on dark hair, pale skin and broad shoulders. 

Ragnor brandishes an eyeliner pencil like he’s offering over the crown jewels, and Magnus shoos him away. When he looks in the mirror, it’s almost like seeing himself again. 

\--------------------

The Hunter’s Moon is packed tonight, celebration in the air. There’s bursts of laughter from a back table, and it’s standing room only at the bar. Magnus gets a hug from Catarina when they come through the door, and he doesn’t miss the way that Catarina’s hand slips neatly into Ragnor’s. 

A lot has happened while he was gone. 

Magnus orders himself a cosmopolitan, slipping a tip to the bartender. He’s lost his taste for martinis, too much association with the life he’d left behind. He takes a sip, leaning against the bar, only half listening to Cat and Ragnor’s affectionate bickering. 

And then he doesn’t hear anything at all. Because leaning up against the pool table in the back of the room in a soft grey sweater is the muse that’s been haunting Magnus’ work, and the man who had never left the steady rotation of his dreams. 

Alec. 

Magnus feels his heart freeze in his chest. It’s been almost five years since the last time he saw Alec, and his breath is ripped from him. Alec is just as beautiful as he remembers, though age has taken some of the baby softness from his features. He’s not the twenty three year old boy Magnus left behind anymore. 

“I can’t be here.” Magnus puts his drink down on the bar, but before he can turn to leave, Ragnor has a hand on his elbow, steadying and warm. 

“Take a deep breath.” The same advice Magnus had given Alec back in Jakarta all those years ago. But Magnus isn’t brave like Alec. He’s a coward like his father, desperate to put his head down and hope this will pass. “Magnus. Listen to me. You need to talk to him. The both of you need closure.”

Closure. Magnus didn’t want closure. He wanted to pull Alec into his arms and kiss him until apologies lost all meaning. He wanted to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. He wanted to run. 

But he’d already done that and hurt Alec before. Alec deserved to say his piece. To hate Magnus, face to face for what he’d done. 

Magnus knocks back the rest of his drink, feeling the bitter pull of it in his stomach. He takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back. The hand on his elbow releases gently, with a quiet _you’re doing the right thing, Magnus_ before he steps through the crowd. 

There may as well not be another soul in the building, for all that Magnus sees them. All he can see is Alec. 

Around the pool table, Clary and Izzy laugh, though a gasp is stolen from Izzy’s lips when she sees who is walking up to their table. Before he can lose his nerve, Magnus turns a pale, closed lipped smile on Alec. 

“Can we talk?”


End file.
